10879243
by Riss Key
Summary: John hadn't always been just John Watson. Until recently, he had been someone very different. But priorities change, and sometimes you have to change... Not that he was unhappy with the new turn of events. In fact, he was quite happy to retire, particularly for the reason he did.


Really, Jim Moriarty should have known better. After all, had he not done the same several times? Feigning ignorance… un-observance… _STUPIDITY_. Oh, how that word irritated him. Especially when it could be applied to his own obvious miscalculations in the case of one Doctor John Hamish Watson. Really, he should have known better.

Deceit? Certainly. Encouraged mis-conception? Absolutely. Mis-representation? Most definitely.

In the end, wasn't that was he was being paid for?

John Watson was one spectacular man living two spectacular lives. In one he was an unpresuming, ordinary, _boring_ doctor who everyone saw but considered harmless, gentle, well-mannered and slightly dull (when placed next to Sherlock so often, what did one expect?). In the other he was the prized hitman for one Mycroft Holmes; had been for some time. And no one had ever suspected that the John they knew was in fact a creation of 10872943 (his military service number). And by the time anyone could have discovered such a trait, John was just John, and no longer a subset of 10872943 but rather an individual, the main, entirety of the person.

So no one saw it coming, and no one suspected a thing afterwards, never pointing fingers and never changing opinions. Perhaps one might say that John was brilliant, more so than Sherlock, since the detective was none the wiser about the other side to his precious John.

John Watson looked bored. Not even Sherlock, for all the world, could have said otherwise or deduced the reason. But Sherlock wasn't there, was he? And so John Watson looked supremely bored standing in the doorway of the room that had seen Jim Moriarty's death… and apparent brutal torture. John Watson looked insurmountably, unfathomably bored in the face of undeniable evidence that the horror that had governed his life for the past three years was over.

"Yes, that'd be him." His voice lacked inflection as he stepped toward the 'body.' Not inflectionless like 'I'm in shock and need a moment to process what I'm feeling,' but 'I feel no emotions whatsoever and am completely un-astounded by your observation of the obvious.' He gave absolutely no acknowledgement to the presence of a second body being removed from its resting place against the adjacent wall.

Lestrade looked affronted by his lack of response, but was cut off from replying by a quietly patronizing voice from the doorway. "Really John?"

John did not jump as the rest of the individuals present (Anderson even managed to knock his head on the window he was currently contaminating while emptying his stomach out), instead he chuckled tiredly, in his quiet and unassuming voice, as he had since the day Mike had introduced him to Sherlock, and by extension the taskforce currently occupying the small space around him. "Mycroft. Hullo. Well then… will that be all?" Smiling at Lestrade innocently, but not waiting for a reply, John strode out of the room, leaving Mycroft Holmes looking at the scene with a slight grimace of displeasure and an unmistakable (if one knew to look for it) gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

Greg Lestrade had been on the force for a great many years… He knew where to look and an entirely unpleasant shiver made its way down his spine.

Later that evening John calmly surveyed the flat. During the cab ride home he had had an interesting phone conversation with Mycroft, in which he had assured him that Sherlock would be returning, but had refused to give any information on his wellbeing, as telling fact indeed. Honestly, John thought the whole thing ridiculous. Mycroft preferred the telephone because it made him less vulnerable to deductions made by one such as Sherlock or Moriarty… But Mycroft really should know better. After all, he had hired John exactly those skills, had he not? People…

And so John, immediately upon arrival, set about restoring the flat to its exact state when Sherlock died those three years ago. Not that much had changed, but he still wanted it to be home.

Deciding that it passed inspection, he climbed slowly into Sherlock's bed, curling up on the side he had called home shortly after his 'abysmal' attempt to foster a relationship with Sarah. Sherlock need never know that it was always meant to end, with or without his jealous interfering. Not that the presence of his interference hadn't hastened the process, because it certainly had (for which John was immensely grateful for… there was only so much of Sarah's sweetness he could take), but John never had any intention of creating a lasting bond with her. He never created such things with anyone… until Sherlock, it seemed.

A shrill ring abruptly woke him from his thoughts, and he fumbled blindly for a few seconds on the nightstand, grasping his cellphone lazily. He had no need for alertness, as all threats worth mentioning had been dealt with, but he maintained enough to say nothing when he brought the phone to his ear.

"Really John?" The same mocking tone as earlier, "Getting sentimental, are we? You missed a hair. I've taken the liberty of organizing the loss and subsequent destruction of the evidence, but really… You must be getting soft. Don't tell me you actually are going through with this?"

John remained silent.

"Very well. I will erase you entirely and Doctor John Hamish Watson can live his boring life as one might expect. Really John, I must express my regret's for having to let you go. I rather enjoyed your expertise."

John stared at the wall blankly, tone conversational "This is non-negotiable Mycroft. It is complete and I want nothing further to do with the business."

Mycroft sighed, "I suspected as much, but really, one must try."

"No, one must not." The quiet steel in John's voice brooked no room for argument, not that Mycroft had any desire to. After the scene today, he had no interest in standing between John Watson and the life of glorified mediocrity he apparently desired at Sherlock's side. But really, the ingenuity that had born a plan to rid the world of Moriarty (the entire network, not just the man) and avoid a third World War and executed it so thoroughly would be difficult to get used to missing. Not for lack of available alternatives… No, Mycroft was not the British government for nothing. Oh, I'm sorry, did I just said 'the British government'? I meant 'a minor member of the British government.' It was simply easier, if rather unnerving, when the operative in question could anticipate and act accordingly in _any_ situation rather than requiring a specialized operative or team of operatives for every mission. But such is life.

Mycroft hummed in agreement, pleasantly dismissing John and hanging up, sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers under his chin as Holmes' are wont to do. And in 3… 2… 1.

John had barely pulled his arm back under the duvet, phone laying on the nightstand once more, when the window creaked open, chilly wind partially blocked by the tall frame bending through it.

That first night with Sherlock back was spend huddled together under the duvet with gentle kisses and strokes meant to ascertain the health of each individual as well as sooth. The following day was spent in a similar fashion on the couch with a hot bowl of soup and a heavy blanket. The third followed the same fashion, and yet Sherlock did not complain of boredom. The heavy bags under his eyes slowly began to fade as his nightmares were headed off by John (after all, he was the best, the genius, when it came to people), and slowly his ribs began to show less. Eventually Sherlock was restored to his previous glory and John Watson returned to his work at the clinic. Lestrade began to consult Sherlock once again, and John remained the unassuming sidekick.

But everything was not as it had been. Whereas Sherlock had often been uninterested in sexual activities, and certainly against touching outside of such actions, before his death and subsequent return, he now craved the tactile gestures, often trekking to the clinic to sit in His Doctor's office during lunch, silent and hardly eating, but fingers interwoven tightly with the other's.

The evenings, went not wasted in pursuit of one criminal or another, were spent curled up on the couch together or John in his chair with Sherlock firmly planted on sofa with a hand outstretched to link with his or with Sherlock curled on the floor, leaning against the chair. Always, with John's or Mrs. Hudson's perfectly brewed tea.

Sherlock still had nightmares, but he spent every night in bed where he could easily awake and curl around John or be awakened.

And oh, the sex…

John's favorite had been living room, with Sherlock bent over the coffee table he so loved to tread on. Sherlock's knees had pushed the table closer to the couch, and his teeth had ended up tearing into the sofa cushion as he attempted to muffle his keening sobs. His fingers had alternated between scrambling for purchase, bracing him against the onslaught, and reaching back to spread himself wider. For John's part, he had sat back and enjoyed the show for a prolonged period (he had a godlike amount of patience and a cockring firmly locked onto Sherlock to aid him). One hand fondled Sherlock, squeezing and stroking, twisting and flicking, guarding against Sherlock's attempts to remove the cockring, holding Sherlock's hips back for him to drive into with all the power no one attributed to him. The other played alongside his own cock, first thrusting a finger in alongside, then two, then three, then finally shoving the vibrator deep within Sherlock on a backstroke, then flicking it on high as he drove back in. He had withdrawn his hand in favor of scratching down Sherlock's chest, catching his nipples just so, reveling in the sensation of thrusting into Sherlock's heat, hitting that delicious vibration and driving it harder against Sherlock's prostate until he literally screamed, tears bathing those beautiful high cheekbones. And just when Sherlock fell apart, he withdrew, enjoying the agony that Sherlock continued to twist in as he tore at the couch as the vibrator pressed harshly against that bundle of overstimulated nerves. John had grinned savagely, removing the vibrator at the same time as he released the cockring, watching as Sherlock's torso bowed nearly in half, his scream echoing throughout the flat as his knees buckled and he fell (John slowing it so as to keep him from abruptly hitting the floor), bringing his cock into contact with the cold of the table, causing a hitch in breath. Without waiting a moment longer, John had thrust back into Sherlock, spilling his own load within him, drawing a dry, shattering orgasm out of Sherlock on the tails of the first. "_Mine_…" He had growled.

Afterwards there had been much adoration and affection, as Sherlock seemed disinclined (unable to?) move from the couch, content to purr from his position under John. All in all, they had become quite… domestic.

No one would believe what he had become if they could have seen what he was, Sherlock least of all. Especially if he ever found out who had been responsible for his return.

He would not tell him… could not tell him… how he had spent his mornings at the gym planning, his evenings at Angelo's watching, his midnight walks through London orchestrating the fall of so many of Moriarty's men. How finally, after an inhuman amount of patience, he had opened that door to Moriarty's surprised face, smirked at the blank look on Sebastian Moran's face as his body fell backward, roughly yanking him from between Moriarty's still-open legs and depositing him in a heap against a wall stained with blood and brain matter. How he had not given Moran a second glance, instead focusing on Moriarty's stunned and blood flecked face, erection still prominent, used hole still gaping. How he had slammed the butt of his gun across his face and then trussed his stunned body spread-eagled to the four-postered bed. How he had teased that twitching hole with his knife, tickling it with the blade as it pulsed, fucking it with the sheath as he had made thousands of tiny cuts across the legs, scraping the orgasm out of it as those cuts slowly oozed out the life of the man before him. How he had slowly, surgically removed the man's limbs, starting with his fingers, making sure he survived until the final blow. How he had whispered in his last remaining ear, knife poised above his throat, "I win… _He's MINE_." How he had left the knife in Moran's hand, for the irony of it.

No, he would never tell him… John was content with John. He had no reason to be 10872943 anymore. He was happy with who he had become for and because of Sherlock. He loved the man… and if the disappearance of 10872943 sparked an increase in homicidal events… Well, when is Sherlock happiest? … When there is a murder to solve of course.


End file.
